


brambleborn

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Both Jaskier and Geralt are beefy that’s just how it is i dont make the rules, Canon divergence: no mountain break-up, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Geralt has a lot of emotions, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Identity Reveal, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Scent Marking, creature!Jaskier, they are both so very dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Instead of walking away on the mountain, Jaskier stands his ground, accidentally revealing his true identity as a Changeling in the process. Geralt takes it rather well, and as they continue to travel together, Jaskier lets down his guard, happy that he can now be himself.Only Geralt didn't actually catch Jaskier's slip.Confusion, obliviousness, and idiocy ensues.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 273
Kudos: 3214
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. of Changelings

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really just free-styling Changeling lore here. and also possibly Witcher lore, 'cus i've only seen the series.
> 
> rebloggable here: 
> 
> [Tumblr](https://tinyurl.com/y8jwgh9r)

_… but while Dopplers and Changelings are both capable of cloaking themselves in humanity, that is where the similarities end. Dopplers are a largely mischievous sort: they rarely seek to harm anyone, but if they do, they are as susceptible to silver as any monster._

_Of Changelings only little is truly known. Human legend has it that a Changeling child is left in place of a stolen human babe and, like a cuckoo, it will then seek kill off its ‘siblings’. The bond formed between Changeling and parent is supposedly either parasitic—in that the human parent will sacrifice anything for the child, even themselves—or else one of mistrust. The human parents will sense that the child is not theirs and instinctively seek to be rid of it._

_None of these are true—and this, the knowledge that this is false, is one of the few facts we have about these creatures. Like the Faerie they originate from, they are a secretive sort, and some even believe that they have long since left our world entirely. Some have theorized that they are (or were) more akin to Elves while in our world, but whether they maintain some sort of tie to their own world is unknown._

_In all our history, only twice has the Path led a Witcher to a Changeling, and then only accidentally. Never have we been called upon to remove them, and had they not revealed themselves, we simply would not have known them for what they were. It is a source of curiosity for many, but not even these encounters yielded much in the way of knowledge._

_What we do know is this:_

_They are left for humans to find—not in place of a human child, but because the humans pray to find them. They are left in berry brambles, both to protect the young Changelings and to test the patience and endurance of the human parent-to-be._

_They are indeed shapeshifters of some kind, but the full extent of their power is unknown to us._

_They are no more harmed by silver than any human, but whether this is because of their nature or their assumed shape is unclear._

_They are hardy and long-lived—maybe even more so than Witchers, given our Path._

_If a Witcher should chance upon a Changeling, it is unlikely that conflict should arise. They keep to their families and do not seem keen on revealing themselves unless in dire circumstances…_


	2. chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sex at the end of the chapter

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

In another life, Jaskier will be devastated by this wish; he’ll turn and walk away, really embrace that ‘live to fight another day’ mindset and wait out Geralt’s wounded pride and his own bruised heart in peace. He’ll wait for a stilted apology and let bygones be bygones when it comes and maybe, hopefully, be back on the Path with the Witcher by his side before the year is out.

But that Jaskier is young—comparatively to _this_ Jaskier, that is. He’s not yet got the experience to deal with such a blow to his tender heart. But Jaskier, as he is in this life, has both the age and experience to get right up in Geralt’s face and yell right back.

It’s quite a row; it echoes all through the mountain range.

After, when both he and Geralt have screamed themselves hoarse, when tears have been angrily shed (Jaskier), all grievances aired (both of them), and apologies made via snuffles and agitated headbutting (Geralt), the dust settles around them. Téa and Véa, having watched them at each other’s throats and bet on the outcome, exchange coin while Jaskier and Geralt pack up.

Everything isn’t fine, but it’ll do for now. Those snuffles and headbutting are, for Geralt, akin to tearful declarations of fondness, and as he’s still snuffling vaguely in Jaskier’s direction, Jaskier decides not to raise the subject just then. They’re both still stinging from the accusations thrown around, and while those definitely need to be addressed, it will be much more conducive to do so when they’ve both cooled their tempers for a bit.

There’s one thing that does need to be addressed before they get off this godforsaken mountain, however. That thing being Jaskier’s accidental slip regarding his status as not-actually-human. Geralt hadn’t really reacted to it when the words first flung themselves like lemmings from Jaskier’s lips. Not beyond yelling a bit more about ‘ _responsibility’_ and ‘ _grr, Witchers don’t feel’_ and all those other things Geralt is so preoccupied by.

… actually, now that Jaskier thinks about it, that would explain the continued snuffling; Geralt’s trying to catch his scent properly, looking beneath the veneer of humanity that Jaskier has been cloaked in for the past… Melitele, it must’ve been a century by now? When he’s away from his family, he forgets to keep count. And with Geralt, there’s no need to do so. Neither of them age fast enough for it to matter. 

If so, he can sniff every inch of Jaskier and not find even a hint of his true nature. In this skin, Jaskier will always smell human. It’s an excellent disguise, and given Geralt’s sharp senses, Jaskier hasn’t let down his guard for ages. After all, he’s been lying—not lying, just not telling the full story—for a long time. Geralt would be more than entitled to be pissed about that.

That’s why, when they’ve gathered all their things and are marching down the mountain, Jaskier hesitates a few steps behind Geralt and asks, “Geralt, are we alright?”

Geralt, very obviously having reached his emotional limit for the day, just says, “Hmm,” and keeps walking.

So that’s that.

Jaskier doesn’t bother smothering his grin.

*

Once compromises are reached—a process that is like pulling teeth; now that Geralt has calmed down, he conveniently has to leave the area whenever Jaskier sits down to talk it out—their lives go back to normal. A new normal, that is. And by Melitele, Jaskier’s never felt so liberated!

Okay, so there are certain things he has to put a lid on; for one thing, he’s agreed not to push Geralt’s boundaries so much, no matter that he personally thinks the Witcher sorely needs it. Said boundaries include not ‘prattling on’ when Geralt tries to meditate or otherwise needs a moment to gather himself—not that Geralt uses those exact words. Witchers, after all, do not ‘need a moment’ and all that other horseshit Geralt tries to spoon-feed his very best friend in the whole wide world.

Point is: now that Geralt knows and is okay with it, Jaskier starts to let his guard down bit by bit, lets his Changeling abilities shine through. Only when they’re alone, though. In villages or around other travellers, he’s as inconspicuous as an exquisitely dressed bard can be (which, according to Geralt, is not at all, but Geralt’s a sourpuss who wears only black because there’s not a darker colour available, so there).

It starts so small that Jaskier doesn’t even notice it himself, at first.

They spend a few days aimlessly trudging through the wilderness, just putting as much space between them and the mountain as possible. They make good time; you’d almost think Yennefer was on their tail with how quickly they move. (Though gods know Geralt might run straight to her in that case; he’s a bit of a masochist. And also quite stupid in the ways of the heart).

Jaskier doesn’t say anything about that (quite a feat; he should definitely be knighted for that) and practices his new song; he’ll debut it at the first inn they find. Never mind that Geralt looks even more sour each time it comes up. (Okay, so maybe singing _Her Sweet Kiss_ doesn’t actually count as ‘saying nothing’ but it’s the best Jaskier can do, and the coin, Geralt, think of all the coin it’ll make!)

It’s only when they actually get to an inn that Jaskier finds out something’s changed; the innkeeper does a doubletake at the sight of Jaskier, eyeing him like she’s not quite sure what it is about him that’s peculiar, but she’s sure there’s something.

Standing in front of a cracked, dirty mirror, he, too, does a doubletake. “Oh!”

His eyes have changed. They’re still blue—he took his mother’s eyes (and his father’s hair, and his mother’s smile, and his father’s nose, and—), and the shape is the same as it’s always been. But where he’d once had to wear just the right doublet to get them to stand out this brightly, now they do that on their own. It’s not a big change, not too inhuman, but it’s enough.

It’s not his ‘natural’ eye colour. Oh, no, this is something else.

It’s his weird biology latching on to Geralt as ‘family’ and changing accordingly. There’s not gold in his eyes, but there’s no mistaking them for anything but cat-like, like that old tom that used to come around back home, its fur pure black and eyes like icy waters. (Maybe he should let his hair go black—wait, no, that’s not the point of this inspection).

“What is it?” Geralt asks when Jaskier hasn’t moved from the mirror in fifteen minutes.

“My eyes,” he tells him, turning to glare accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me how bright they were?”

Geralt _hmm_ s. This one means ‘Melitele save me from vain bards’. Jaskier is very adept at reading him.

If Geralt thought that was the end of it, he’s very much mistaken, as Jaskier spends the next hour either trying on all his doublets to see what goes best with his eyes, whining about needing money for new doublets to go with his eyes, or despairing at Geralt’s increasingly more taciturn _hmm_ s (those ones meaning ‘I regret every single life choice that led me to this moment’ and ‘just pick a fucking doublet, I’m starving and there’s food downstairs, I can smell it’).

There is food downstairs and it is rather excellent. Though not as excellent as the way Jaskier’s beautiful eyes just _pop_ when paired with his sky-blue doublet.

*

His hair doesn’t grow darker, but it does grow thicker, which is a pain in this heat. Jaskier blames Geralt: why does that bastard need such luscious, flowing locks? Can’t he see Jaskier’s own hair is now trying to compete? Gods, it’s _unbearable_.

Another thing that grows thicker? Jaskier does. (Mind out of the gutter! Not _that_. Well. Also that part, but that’s not a result of their new understanding. Jaskier dares anyone to look at Geralt and not feel the slightest hum of attraction, and Jaskier is around him all day, every day, he’s practically swimming in desire. He’s gotten used to it).

No, what grows thicker is his body. He doesn’t get stocky or anything; nor does he gain quite the same amount of muscle as Geralt, but then, there’s a huge difference in how they eat and work, so that only makes sense. It’s still noticeable that he’s mimicking Geralt though.

Jaskier’s always been pretty well-shaped, if he does say so himself (and he does say so himself. Often. And loudly. Much to Geralt’s continued consternation). But now his biceps strain his sleeves, his trousers can barely close around his hips, and the doublets are a lost cause entirely. When he airs his grievances to Geralt, he just gets a sigh and a _hmm_ and a reluctant promise that they’ll see about replacing his clothes in the next village. He doesn’t even seem impressed with Jaskier’s newfound mass. But then, standing next to Geralt, even giants may feel petite.

Others, however, take notice. Jaskier’s never enjoyed such frank appraisal on the street, not even at Oxenfurt where everyone’s a horny student away from home for the first time and willing to bed almost anyone who looks at them long enough (good times. _Good_ times).

The tragedy is: Jaskier can’t do anything about it! It was one of those compromises he had to agree to: no bringing trouble to their doorstep if said trouble could be avoided by ‘using your upstairs brain for once in your life, bard’. Why are the gods punishing him with all these married women (and men) throwing themselves in his path? Shouldn’t he get to be worshipped? _Whyyyyyyy_!

On the bright side, they finally make it to a tailor. They’ve just come from court and a cockatrice hunt, having both been paid more-or-less handsomely for their work, and Jaskier can’t wait to spend all that coin on new clothes. He lets Geralt squirrel away what they need for travelling, but the rest he seizes and gleefully sprints to the shop, tugging Geralt behind him.

“What do you think of this?” Jaskier asks, shoving a roll of cloth at Geralt. It’s finely spun and perfect for the weather, especially here in the city where everyone lives on top of one another and the heat lingers long after dark.

Geralt glances at it. “It makes you look sallow.”

Jaskier gasps in outrage. (But when he holds it up to his face, he has to admit that Geralt is right. In addition to a thicker build, his skin has also grown paler, imitating Geralt once again. Jaskier’s not real sure why that’s necessary; Geralt tans in the sun just like anyone else, but he has been extraordinarily pale as of late, and apparently, Jaskier’s weird magic simply must sympathize).

In the end, he orders two sets of clothing; a red set (which Geralt doesn’t like; he doesn’t say anything, but he stiffens when he sees it and glares a lot), and a purple. The undershirts are beautifully embroidered, the thread adding just a flash of colour, enough to catch anyone’s eyes and draw them to Jaskier’s chest. (Now, if only Geralt would stop looking so put-out whenever Jaskier flirted just a little bit with a handsome stranger).

When they take the clothes home a week later, Jaskier paws through them all, touching the stitching and the ties and generally annoying the shit out of Geralt who has this _thing_ he does with all their clothes that he thinks Jaskier doesn’t know about. See, Geralt doesn’t like new clothes. Doesn’t like the smell of them, of the tailor’s hands on them, of the strange shop they came from. But he also doesn’t want to admit that.

It’s just so obvious it makes Jaskier want to pat him on the head and coo. The set Jaskier isn’t wearing goes straight into the bag filled with their old clothes (Geralt even sneaks one of his own less-than-clean shirts in there) to marinate in their smell and hopefully emerge smelling more like the two of them. The set Jaskier _is_ wearing gets eyed with mistrust, and Geralt touches him more than usual, trying to cover the non-familiar scents with his own smell. (Should Jaskier find this arousing? He probably shouldn’t. Oh, well, too late now).

He’s just glad he doesn’t have Geralt’s keen nose.

*

He said that far too early.

It’s hotter than the deepest pits of hell and they’re smack-dab in the middle of summer. When Jaskier was still clinging to his human skin, he would’ve smelled the sweat and wrinkled his nose and maybe whined a bit about a bath, but that would’ve been it (it would not; Jaskier is a champion complainer). But now, smells hit him like a brick to the face: his sweat, Geralt’s sweat, Roach’s sweat, overheated leather, the heat rising off the stones in their path, the dry grass and too-ripe fruit trees they pass. It sticks to the roof of his mouth and coats his nostrils, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never smell something pleasant again, it’s that tenacious.

Thus, when they come upon a small river, Jaskier sheds all his clothes at once, not even waiting for Geralt to check the area for drowners (his new senses would have noticed them, right? What else are they for?) He throws himself in gleefully, moaning with the feel of clean(ish) water on his skin. Geralt’s not far behind him, just as uncomfortable with the heat as Jaskier.

“This, dear Witcher, is the height of luxury,” Jaskier declares. He’s floating on his back, limbs spread in an odd sort of salute to the sun above, naked and pale for all the gods to see.

Geralt shrugs. He’s too busy detangling his hair (why doesn’t he cut it in summer? He doesn’t even tie it up, not more than he usually does, anyway) to pay much attention to Jaskier’s immodest display. “’S fine,” he says, like he’s not a lush for baths (not literally, sadly).

Jaskier blithely goes on, “All we’d need is a buffet and half-naked people to feed it to us as we lie in the shade of giant fans. Also wielded by half-naked people.”

“Hmm.”

“All of whom want to be there, of course! Lusty, half-naked people in awe of our—of our—what are you doing?”

Geralt pauses, squints. “Washing.”

“With _what?_ Melitele’s tits, it stinks!”

More squinting, now annoyed. “You’ve never had a problem with this soap before.”

“It is an affront to every single god in the _world,_ Geralt, how can you not smell that? Are you ill? Is your nose blocked?” He advances on Geralt.

“Jaskier, get out of my face— _Jaskier_!”

“Let go of the soap, Geralt!”

A slap-fight ensues. Geralt’s pulls his punches at first, unused to Jaskier’s true strength. But the first time Jaskier pinches his nipple, he growls and the real tussle begins. How he keeps hold of the soap is a mystery. They claw at one another, kicking and biting and shoving. At one point he grabs Jaskier by the back of his neck, hauling him off like a misbehaving kitten.

To any hapless by-passer, it’d be a strange sight. Two fully-grown men splashing around in the nude, baring their teeth and lunging for a bar of soap. Jaskier snaps his teeth at Geralt’s neck (his eye teeth may not have grown quite as sharp as Geralt’s, but they’re getting there), causing the other to jolt back and hip check him into the water. He kicks to the surface, undaunted.

In the end, he wins.

“ _A-haaaaaa_!” he cries, grabbing the soap and chucking it far into the field. That new muscle mass is good for something. “ _Victoryyyy_!”

“Damn it, Jaskier! That was the last bar!”

“Thank the gods. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d been in its presence one more moment.” He sniffs. “Fuck, but you smell _awful_.”

Geralt _hmm_ s. That one means ‘touch me and die’.

So of course Jaskier touches him. 

Now, he’d like to blame what happens on his newly acquired Witchery instincts. But contrary to what the public thinks, Geralt is not, actually, an animal. Sure, he has heightened senses that are animal- _like_ and he uses his nose way more than the average person, but don’t say you’ve never leaned into someone just to enjoy their scent. That thing with the new clothes weren’t a ‘mark my territory’ kind of thing; it’s simply that Geralt doesn’t like unfamiliar scents in his space if he can avoid it.

What Jaskier’s doing is decidedly Changeling instinct, not Witcher. It starts innocently enough; he just wants that god-awful scent off Geralt, that’s all. It’s not his fault that something in his brain clicks and translates that into ‘families smell like each other’ and goes absolutely wild.

All Jaskier can think is ‘mine, mine, _mine,_ _my_ Witcher, _my_ family’ _._ Geralt freezes, too surprised to react to Jaskier rubbing himself all over him like a cat in heat. At this point he’s just trying to get as much of Geralt’s natural scent—musky, sharp—onto his own skin. 

It is not an elegant process. It is, in fact, really awful, and if Jaskier was in his right mind, he would cringe from the display. He used to do it all the time when he was a child, back when instinct drove him more easily and his family embraced his oddities with good humor, but he’d thankfully learned to tame that before he ventured into the world.

Geralt is not embracing it with good humor. He just stands there, stiff as a board, fumbling his hold on Jaskier when Jaskier climbs him, rubbing their cheeks together. Oh, it feels so good, so easy to be like this with him; Geralt’s wrongfooted, but not exactly disgusted, not annoyed by it. Jaskier thrills happily, clings closer.

Oh. Ooh boy.

Jaskier hadn’t been hard before. This is not a sexual thing for him, no more than a hug is to anyone else. But Geralt’s hard now, big and unyielding against him, and the sweet-musk scent of arousal has started to rise from his skin, especially on his neck and chest, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with himself, he’s so thrilled.

“Out of the water, out!” he orders, pushing at Geralt to get them on dry land. He wants to smell him properly, wants to rub his own scent into every inch of skin.

He’s never let himself go like this before, can’t quite think straight. Geralt’s the one who kisses him, clumsy and eager. He’s the one to get them both onto the grass, the one to arrange their limbs into some semblance of a proper embrace, and the first one to thrust his hips.

It’s a noisy affair. Jaskier’s gasping and moaning, no surprise there; but Geralt is making these punched-out little groans that’d be enough to get a whole whorehouse going, and it’s so good and so oddly sweet, Jaskier can’t contain himself.

He bites him. Breaks skin and lavishes in Geralt’s confused delight—even more so when Geralt bites back, holding Jaskier down with his whole body. Jaskier comes when Geralt kisses him again, shouts around his tongue, eyes rolling back.

Geralt comes sometime during the mini blackout that follows. Jaskier is vaguely disappointed to have missed it, but not enough to not enjoy the feel of Geralt’s cum mixing with his own on his belly. He rolls the blessedly pliant Witcher onto his back and gleefully sets to rubbing their spend into their skin, making happy little noises as he works.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. It means ‘what. WHAT.’

Jaskier beams at him. Geralt’s hair has started to dry in messy tufts, tangled and dirty again, and his skin has bruises from Jaskier’s hands and mouth. He looks absolutely befuddled, lying there on his back in the grass, and well-sexed, if Jaskier does say so himself.

He rolls off Geralt and stretches. “Now _that_. That was true excellence.”

“We’re dirty. Again.”

Hand-wave. “Semantics.”

“Hmm.” Meaning ‘I have no idea what you are talking about but I can’t be bothered to ask’.

Geralt flops over and covers Jaskier in something that could maybe be termed a hug, if you were feeling generous. It mostly feels like a very confused wrestling move, like he’s just trying to keep Jaskier where he is rather than actually embracing him.

Jaskier pets his hair anyway and hums the notes of a song Geralt will later tell him not to sing, “don’t you dare, Jaskier, I will end you, fuck, fine, do what you will.” It has a lot of dick metaphors and barely concealed hints to Witcher prowess.


	3. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic had the audacity to grow a bit of plot, so now it's gonna be four chapters

After that, Jaskier _really_ lets go. He starts doing things he’s only ever done around his family or totally alone. For one, his eating habits gets… strange, to say the least.

“Aren’t those poisonous?” Geralt asks one day. He’s been watching Jaskier run around a field for a while, picking flowers, smelling them, and now stuffing his face with tasty little morsels (read: moderately poisonous flora).

“Not to me,” Jaskier tells him brightly. He’s missed buttercups. They just taste so… spicy, for lack of better word. Some call them acrid, but to his tongue, it’s just another sort of sting. His dad had nearly died on the spot when he first saw his little kid eating the pretty, yellow flowers.

Geralt frowns but leaves him to it.

Jaskier starts to eat all sorts of things. His belly doesn’t discriminate. He can’t really be poisoned, so nothing is off limits. That bread in the inn the other night? Slightly moldy, but he’d chewed it down; didn’t taste that good, but mold registers as a kind of fungi, it’s fiiiine. The slightly too raw meat they roasted last week? Jaskier let Geralt have the properly roasted parts and ate the raw meat himself. Those berries that will definitely give a normal human the shits? Yummy.

If anything, it makes travelling together easier. It lets Geralt have more of the normal food without either of them going hungry. He starts to put on a bit of weight; it softens his belly, adds plushness to his arms and thighs. Jaskier adores it, goes into raptures when Geralt lets him touch.

And Geralt lets him. _A lot_.

At first, Jaskier thinks it really is a weird sort of attraction to a body that now looks more like Geralt’s own (which would be weird on so many levels). But Geralt never remarks on it, doesn’t linger on Jaskier’s pointier teeth or his brighter eyes. You’d almost think he didn’t even notice (except Jaskier makes a point of admiring himself in every mirror they come across. He’s looking great and by all the gods, he will compliment himself if no one else will). 

No, what gets Geralt all in a twist is Jaskier’s _behavior_. He holds nothing back; if anyone insults Geralt, Jaskier pulls a knife on them; if anyone looks at Geralt a little too long, bam! There’s Jaskier, baring his teeth and draping himself all over his Witcher; if Geralt gets hurt, Jaskier fusses and bickers and patches him up. He never stops touching Geralt (not unless Geralt asks him to and Jaskier obeys, because that was part of the _compromises_ ).

But the thing is… Geralt doesn’t ask as much. It even gets to the point that if Jaskier isn’t touching him, Geralt gets this little furrow between his brows and his _hmm_ takes on a distinct ‘I am displeased’ sort of air. The first thing he does when he gets back from a hunt is to flop down and stare at Jaskier until he puts down his lute and reaches for him. (Okay, so he also does away with his swords and armor first and takes care of Roach, because Geralt loves that horse more than his own life, and that’s fine, Jaskier’s not jealous at all).

They’ve got a good thing going, is what Jaskier is saying.

Another thing he wants to emphasize, because many, many villagers have started looking at him weird: he is not in love with Geralt. He’s not that stupid. It’s one thing to lust after the man, another to pine for him; especially when Jaskier knows full well that Geralt’s still aching for Yennefer. Jaskier doesn’t throw himself at anyone who’s already in love with someone else (except, apparently, when he does. Semantics).

Geralt can’t have Yennefer, and Jaskier is perfectly content to pretend that it doesn’t sting to be the second choice. It’s easy to forget when Geralt nuzzles in close, when he kisses Jaskier with slow thoroughness (he always kisses Jaskier first, so tentative; it’s doing wonders for Jaskier’s ego).

Why would Yennefer ever give this up? Jaskier doesn’t ask. Mostly because they absolutely do not talk about Yennefer or what happened on the mountain any more than they talk about the Child Surprise awaiting Geralt in Cintra or the exact specifics of Jaskier’s existence. He’s a little suspicious of Geralt’s total lack of questions, in fact. If it were Jaskier, he’d have been all over a revelation like that.

But eh, who knows what goes through Geralt’s brain. He’s a pretty quiet man by nature. Him not asking probably has less to do with lack of interest than it does with his difficulty to put his thoughts and wants into words.

He’s getting better though. He’ll tell Jaskier more about his hunts (not a lot more, but he’s moved on from ‘kikimora. Big. Ugly. Stabbed it’ to ‘kikimora. Big. Looks like a lobster had sex with a spider. Stabbed it a few times’. Jaskier is willing to count that as progress). (Also, he might be getting better only because that was one of the compromises Geralt had to agree to, ‘I’m not a mind-reader, Geralt, you’re going to have to spell it out’).

… where was he going with this? Oh, right.

Geralt doesn’t have a thing for a body that looks more like his. He has a thing for the utter weirdness that comes with being a Changeling. His eyes dilate when Jaskier rubs his scent into his skin; he hums in delight when Jaskier nips at his jaw or his ears, when he puts his strength to good use and manhandles Geralt where he wants him. When they have sex (which they do, often; Jaskier’s always respected whores, but knowing that they’ve weathered a pent up Geralt really adds a layer to that respect), he likes to be face to face, likes to look Jaskier in the eye and just hold his gaze. Maybe he’s taking in the difference between the way Jaskier’s eyes were when they first met and the way they are now.

Another thing Geralt likes? Jaskier’s voice. (That thing about his singing being like fillingless pie was a lie, lie, lie, and Jaskier will never let him hear the end of it).

He’s under Geralt, begging him to touch him. Jaskier doesn’t actually need a hand; he’s perfect capable of coming untouched, especially with the way Geralt is hitting just the right spot with every thrust, but the begging makes a feral light come up in Geralt’s eyes, makes his hip stutter hard, makes him lose control just that little bit more.

“There, there, _there,_ fuck, harder, please—” he gasps as Geralt rears up on his knees, fucking into him harder and faster. Jaskier spreads his legs and moans like he’s getting paid for it.

They’re on round three; a most favorable evening, if you ask Jaskier. He can no longer taste or smell anything that isn’t sex and them, together, and it is _glorious_.

Geralt comes first. He sucks in a surprised breath, like it’s been punched out of him, and falls forward, almost squishing Jaskier. There’s something frantic in his expression, something desperate and wild, and he keeps thrusting even as he gets softer; when Jaskier comes, (more because his body gives in after a long fight against coming than Geralt actually getting him there), Geralt whines louder than he does.

After, Jaskier sighs in satisfaction and buries his grin between Geralt’s pecs (they are magnificent and should be worshipped every hour on the dot). “I’m gonna make a song about that.”

“No,” Geralt grumps.

“It’s happening right now, it’s gonna be epic—you put that hand back in my hair right this second!”

“No.”

“Don’t make me come up there, Geralt,” Jaskier threatens, painstakingly lifting his head to glare at his grumpy bedmate. “Put your hand back, or so help me.”

“Hmm.” It’s playful. It means ‘I’d like to see you try’.

So Jaskier fights his way up, plants his arms on either side of Geralt’s head and stares his Witcher down. Geralt’s watching him with a neutral expression—but don’t think Jaskier doesn’t notice that twitch in the corner of his eyes! Geralt might as well be beaming at him.

“One last chance to surrender,” he tells him. Geralt just raises a brow arrogantly.

Jaskier darts in. He presses the first kiss to Geralt’s mouth. The next to his cheek, scruffy and rough with stubble. Then, his nose, sharp and proud. His brow, always so furrowed. Back to his mouth, coaxing Geralt to kiss him back.

When he’s done, Geralt’s a puddle of stunned incredulity. Those amber-golden eyes are dazed, fastened on Jaskier’s face, first his lips, then his eyes, back and forth. His breath hasn’t even settled from the sex yet, and now Jaskier’s gone and gotten him all worked up again.

“Surrender, my Witcher?”

Geralt tumbles them both off the bed.

*

There is a chance that Jaskier may have fucked up by not talking to Geralt about the mountain.

The first sign of that mistake is Yennefer. Because when hasn’t Yennefer of Vengerburg not been a sign that Jaskier’s life is about to take a turn for the worse? (That’s untrue. But Jaskier is bitter and petty and he’s gotten so used to calling Geralt ‘his’ out loud that his instincts have spun out of control and the first thing he does when he sees Yennefer is greet her with, “Oh. It’s the strumpet.”)

Yennefer gives him a cold look that says, ‘I am entirely too far above you to engage in this pitiful little game’. He’s a little impressed.

Then she looks at Geralt, and it’s only by the skin of his teeth that Jaskier doesn’t launch himself at her, knife first. She looks at Geralt with a lost sort of unhappiness, like she wants to go to him despite knowing better, like she’s missed him and hates herself for it. Geralt looks back with that same ache. It’s fine. Completely fine. Jaskier will just throw himself off a cliff and into the sea, the water looks lovely today.

“I have need of your skills,” she says, ignoring Jaskier completely. “You owe me.”

And because Geralt is nothing but a big, grumpy softie, he says yes. (Also, he feels guilt _and_ he’s in love with Yennefer, and wow, Jaskier is having heartburn. Must be something he ate. Maybe those red mushrooms?)

What Yennefer needs is for Geralt to go clean out a Basilisk den and bring back their teeth, something, something, ritual, something, something (it may have something to do with fertility or whatever it is that Yennefer’s always chasing. Why she doesn’t just try to Law of Surprise herself out of that, only the gods know). He misses most of the explanation, too busy biting his tongue to prevent himself from challenging Yennefer to a duel right here and ending up a smear on the floor. He doesn’t know why he has this urge; yes, he’s a Changeling, yes, Changelings have issues with possessiveness, but he’s not in love with Geralt, they’re just fucking, there’s no reason for him to get this tetchy. He knows where they stand.

… right?

As Geralt packs up his gear, Jaskier sits by the fire, angrily strumming his lute. Yennefer is watching him oddly. He doesn’t bare his teeth at her, but it’s a close call.

“You look well,” she says. It’d be a compliment, except her tone is highly suspicious. “No crows’ feet at all.”

“New moisturizer,” Jaskier chirps back.

Geralt coughs and looks distinctively uncomfortable. What—oh. Right. He came all over Jaskier’s face this morning; they’d cleaned up after, of course, but it was a cursory wash, and Jaskier can still smell it on his skin, and so Geralt can still smell it on his skin. Whoopsie.

Yennefer just keeps staring at him, even when Geralt nods his goodbye and orders Jaskier not to do anything stupid while he’s off. Jaskier gestures at Yennefer, all ‘the stupid is already here’ and Geralt frowns, and Jaskier huffs, and—

“Gods, can you just leave already?” Yennefer interrupts, throwing her hands up like all the world is against her.

Jaskier doesn’t like her, and as soon as Geralt’s out of earshot, he makes sure to tell her that. Her stare says, ‘as if your opinion has even an ounce of influence on my ego’, and that should be that, because you don’t fuck with a sorceress who already hates you, but Jaskier’s not good at taking cues that’ll keep him alive, so he just keeps going.

Yennefer barks right back.

He doesn’t throw her inability to have a child in her face, despite his instincts telling him to go for the throat; he sticks to insults instead, and in between those, he strums the notes to _Her Sweet Kiss,_ thoroughly enjoying the way the melody makes Yennefer’s eyes narrow in irritation. So he starts singing to, and oooh, she’s coming right at him, better run. (He does not stop playing even to run).

He also doesn’t account for her magic, which: fuck this.

While Jaskier has a great deal of physical strength, much more than you’d think, he’s no match against the shadowy tendrils that Yennefer conjures, so when Geralt comes back, it’s to Jaskier hanging upside down and screeching at Yennefer while Yennefer wonders aloud about all the ways she could silence him permanently.

“ _Yen_ ,” Geralt growls. “Put him down.”

“Yeah, _Yen_ , put me down!”

“ _Jaskier_.” See, it sounds like Geralt is saying his name, but what he’s really saying is ‘for the love of all that’s holy, be _quiet_ ’.

Is it any wonder that Jaskier’s feelings are hurt? And the hits don’t stop coming.

“We need to talk,” Yennefer says to Geralt. She grabs the burlap sack filled to the brim with Basilisk teeth that Geralt has brought back. “ _Alone_.”

Jaskier scoffs. Who does she think she is? Geralt’s not going to send him aw—

Geralt sends him away.

*

It’s fine. Jaskier’s _fine._ He’s so fine he’s dragged his bedroll all the way across camp to show just how fine he is with Geralt and Yennefer sending him away for some alone time. It’s fine. It’s great, even! Geralt gets what he’s always wanted, and Jaskier’s sated his curiosity, and he’ll find a way to deal with having to watch Geralt make nice with Yennefer, and it’s all _good_.

He’s going to throw up.

So. Jaskier may have miscalculated. Maybe everything _isn’t_ going to be fine, because this isn’t just Changeling attachment or whatever Jaskier has tried to blame it on. It isn’t one of his fleeting infatuations. No, because that would be _easy_. And Jaskier doesn’t do easy.

Oh no, Jaskier had to go and fall in love with that mountain of emotional repression. 

Which is just… grand, isn’t it. Yes, Jaskier, let’s fall in love with the man who’s so in awe of a sorceress that he made a wish to change their bloody fucking Destinies just so that they could be together. Brilliant work there, chap, _outstanding_ fucking job.

He’ll deal with it in the morning. For now, he wants to stew.

When he hears Geralt coming up, he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. He’s angry and hurt, and he’ll say something he regrets, and it’ll be like the mountain meltdown part two, and honestly? He does not have the energy for that.

He expects Geralt to go to sleep like usual. He expects some brooding, because that’s just what Geralt does in all situations.

He does not expect the painful silence that descends as Geralt takes stock of tonight’s sleeping arrangements. Does not expect the sharp inhale or the way Geralt seems to hold his breath. Jaskier is trying not to breathe too deep either; he doesn’t want to smell Yennefer on Geralt and know exactly what they’ve been up to. He can take a guess. ‘We need to talk’. Right. Riiiiight. ‘Talk’.

He can’t help but listen though.

Geralt’s isn’t moving with his usual grace. Could be the fight took its toll. Could be he was injured. In any case, his motions are jerky. He turns in and Jaskier can _feel_ the tension in his body.

… fuck.

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

There’s a beat. Then, “No.”

Jaskier sighs and gets up.

He stands over Geralt and peers at him through the darkness. Geralt is curled on his side, away from Jaskier, pale hair spilling over his bedroll. Even through the light blanket, the tense line of his shoulders—of his whole body—shows. Like a dog expecting a kick.

Like he’s expecting Jaskier to deliver that kick.

“Fucking shit.”

Jaskier moves his bedroll back next to Geralt’s and curls up behind him, ignoring his better sense telling him not to do so. He puts his head between Geralt’s shoulder blades and exhales angrily, forcing down his emotions and praying for control.

It’s not Geralt’s fault that Jaskier’s in love with him. It’s not even his fault that he’s in love with Yennefer, and it’s not Yennefer’s fault either (much as Jaskier would like to blame her). That wouldn’t be fair (life isn’t fair either, but fuck it; sometimes, loving someone means doing it in spite of not getting any of that love back. And if Yennefer is who makes Geralt happy then… then Jaskier will have to vent his rage in a productive manner. He senses a lot of ballads in his near future).

(And if it also helps that Geralt _doesn’t_ smell like he’s been getting sweaty with Yennefer, well, that’s just a bonus).

Slowly, the tension leaks from Geralt. After a while, he turns toward Jaskier and pulls him into that strangle-hold he likes to call a hug. Their limbs are so intertwined, they may as well be one body. (Wouldn’t that be lovely?)

“Good talk?” Jaskier asks. Because he cares, despite the warning signs.

“Hmm.”

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt sighs. It’s one of his less annoyed sighs. “It was fine.”

“That tone doesn’t sound like it was ‘fine’.”

Before the mountain, this is the point where Geralt would’ve either run off to brood in a dark corner somewhere, or he would’ve snapped as Jaskier to shut up. Now, he visibly bites back his instinct to panic in the face of emotion and instead takes a while to gather his words.

“She wants to find out how the wish bound us.”

Ah. So everything is very much not fine. A kiss would probably not be appreciated right now, not from Jaskier. Doesn’t stop him from pressing a quick peck to Geralt’s jaw, the only place he can reach.

Geralt continues haltingly, “She’s still angry.”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t—“Well. She isn’t exactly wrong to be so.”

“Hmm.” A pained grunt more than anything. Then, “I didn’t mean for it to come to this. I didn’t wish for… for her choice to be taken away.”

But they both know Djinn wishes aren’t always kind. Djinni are powerful beings; enslaving them drives them mad, and despite having to heed their masters, they are not above hurting them as they do so.

Jaskier nods against him. “What did you wish for, exactly?”

“I… don’t remember.”

“… you don’t remember.”

Geralt smushes his face into Jaskier’s hair. Either because Jaskier smells good (debatable) or because this is too much talking and he’d like it to end already. Odds are on the latter. “She was dying. I wanted to save her. I wanted…”

“Her,” Jaskier whispers. His throat aches. Must be a cold (he doesn’t get colds).

“She was…” Fierce. Bullheaded. Beautiful and powerful and daring and oh, Jaskier knows exactly what Geralt sees in her. He wishes he didn’t. It’d be easier to hate her then, rather than simply envy her. “I couldn’t let her die.”

“So you made your wish.”

“She wasn’t afraid of me,” Geralt whispers. A confession in the dark, to the person who least deserves to hear it. “Witchers don’t want for anything. Or anyone.” That’s a load of horseshit, but okay. Jaskier will let it slide this once. “Yen wants to know exactly what was done to her. Said it’s the only reason she’s even speaking to me.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to _hmm_. Good god, this imitation game has gone too far.

“I fucked up,” Geralt admits.

“You did,” Jaskier agrees. What? Truth is good for the soul. (Hypocrisy, thy name is Jaskier).

“I’ll make amends.”

“Of course you will. And then you’ll ride off into the sunset together.”

Geralt frowns at him. “Hmm.”

Jaskier blinks. That was not a ‘yes, dearest bard, you have indeed revealed my fool-proof retirement plan’. That was a ‘yeah, no’. That was a ‘you have sincerely misunderstood everything I’ve just said, and I am ashamed of your poor comprehension skills’.

Oh. O-ho-ho-ho- _ho_. You know what that means?

That means that it’s open season on Witcher wooing. Jaskier has totally got this. 


	4. chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is long y'all

Jaskier pulls out all the stops. Nothing but the best for his Witcher.

He tries the more traditional routes first, compliments and gifts and the like. The results are… a mixed bag, to be quite honest.

The more-overt-than-usual love songs make Geralt’s flight-or-fight instinct activate faster than the speed of light. It’s rather a miracle he hasn’t chucked Jaskier’s lute into a river by now. He does like Jaskier’s voice though and will hum in pleasure when Jaskier sings something he likes (love songs are decidedly _not_ included in that category). He doesn’t care much for the lyrics; it’s more about the tone and inflection, and he reacts the most favourably when Jaskier puts a bit of growl into it.

Compliments unsettle him. Each one is met with a narrow-eyed look and a stiffening of his shoulders, almost like he’s expecting Jaskier to take them back or laugh at him if he shows pleasure. It doesn’t matter what the compliment is—“you are looking particularly dashing today,” or “I love the way you just… popped those drowners’ heads off. Like pimples,”—Geralt bares his teeth and walks away.

Pet names meet the same fate. ‘Darling’, ‘sweet’, ‘lover’. Geralt simply doesn’t react to any of them, not unless you count accidents. After those, he sulks. Jaskier would complain, but when he finally stumbles on one that doesn’t upset Geralt’s delicate fucking sensibilities, it feels like stumbling on a gold mine. “Dear heart,” Jaskier will say and press kisses to his cheeks, and Geralt will grumble and submit to his ministrations.

Gifts are a whole other problem. Geralt is not a particularly materialistic person, but the things he has, he prizes. That means he could potentially be delighted by gifts, right? Wrong. The new shirt Jaskier buys him in the next town gets a frown and a confused, “I already have two shirts?” (Jaskier despairs at his poor Witcher’s understanding of how many shirts are enough shirts). He doesn’t wear jewellery, so that’s out of the question. The one time Jaskier drags him to a soap merchant’s stall, he wrinkles his nose and breathes through his mouth; after, when they’re alone, he buries his face in Jaskier’s hair and breathes until the smell is gone from his nostrils (okay, so maybe that was a miscalculation, and Jaskier is definitely also feeling the after-effects). Who knew you could get a scent hangover?

It’s driving Jaskier up the wall. He wants to show Geralt how much he cares. _How_ is he supposed to do that when there’s nothing Geralt wants? Nothing that he can give that would delight Geralt simply because he finds it pleasing, not because it fulfils an immediate need?

But finally, he hits pay dirt.

See, Geralt has a thing about his hair. It may not seem so at first, but there’s a reason he keeps it long instead of shaving it all off in a fit of pique. It is his most recognizable feature. He likes it when Jaskier runs his fingers through it, likes having it pulled, likes getting it washed. It’s a glorious silver-white mane, so Jaskier gets it. If that were his hair, he’d be quite attached to it, too.

He finds the perfect gift the day they come back from a griffin hunt. It’d been a big bugger, and Geralt is tired and bruised, eager to get back and sleep it off. He’s had to drag the griffin corpse home, too, as he’s getting paid extra by the apothecary for the insides.

Having been paid, he leaves Jaskier in the inn’s common room, racing off to bathe. Jaskier will join him once he’s done eating, won’t be but a moment. That’s why he overhears the apothecary and the merchant haggling.

“Give me the legs then,” the merchant is saying. “You don’t need those, do you?”

“Excuse me,” Jaskier says, popping up behind them and startling them both thoroughly. “Why do you need griffin legs?”

“Griffin bone keeps longer,” she explains, “even longer than whale bone. They’re good for combs, hair trinkets, that sort of thing.”

“Fascinating,” Jaskier says with way too much enthusiasm.

A few days later, he presents Geralt with a handsomely carved bone comb (and a bottle of lightly scented thyme-and-sage hair oil, perfect for detangling). Geralt, technically, already has a comb. It’s old but works perfectly well. He doesn’t strictly need a new one.

But he deserves nice things, and Jaskier will not be swayed on this matter!

“Hmm,” Geralt says when he unwraps it. It’s a very drawn out _hmm._ It means ‘oh’, means ‘what’s this’, means ‘is that for me?’ And Jaskier tells him, “I had it made for you,” and that’s that.

The comb gets tucked away safely in their pack, carefully wrapped in a cloth to protect it.

*

Given the mixed reception of the usual wooing techniques, Jaskier turns to something he knows for sure—okay, maybe he’s only ninety percent sure. Maybe eighty—will work. It’s time to get his man, Changeling courting style.

Except the first thing he does is run into a problem.

He doesn’t actually _know_ how to woo someone this way. It’s not like he’s got a Changeling mentor that he can ask, and there are no books on the matter either. He’s never done this before, always stuck firmly to human-approved methods of communication to protect himself from discovery.

He decides to test the waters.

Which, uh. Doesn’t actually get him anywhere. He’s _already_ doing all the things his nature demands he should. He’s by Geralt’s side, he’s touching him, he’s kissing him and holding him, and making sure he gets rest and a place to retreat from unkind human eyes, making sure he eats more and that he’s comfortable (as comfortable as you can be on the Path). What else can he do? Attach himself to Geralt and try to literally grow on him, like a cute little fungus?

Not going to work, for a number of reasons. The most important being that Geralt needs space sometimes. Don’t get Jaskier wrong: Geralt has come a _long_ way. He no longer sees Jaskier’s presence as an annoyance, doesn’t react to every touch like it’s a threat, and even seeks him out on his own. But he still needs time alone.

Though it pains Jaskier, he lets him have it. Now and then, they separate on the road, Jaskier heading towards town while Geralt heads into the wild. Sometimes, they’re apart for weeks. It’s the worst. (Jaskier channels his emotions into sad ballads and lines his pockets with coin).

When they finally come back together, summer is ending.

They’re in another inn (this one barely deserving the name, it’s that lousy, but the door has a semi-functional lock and the villagers have largely ignored them except to hear Jaskier play and to pay Geralt for his services, so that makes it pretty alright). They’re sweaty and sated, Jaskier flopped on top of Geralt and perfectly pleased to be there, Geralt tracing shapes on his back.

(He has a thing for innocent touches, Geralt does. The first time Jaskier led him by the hand through the market, he’d nearly not gotten his hand back, Geralt had held it so tight. When they sit together, Geralt knocks their knees together. When he stands, he leans towards Jaskier. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say he was being seduced in turn).

Geralt’s been snuffling contentedly at Jaskier’s hair for a while. He knows exactly what Geralt is smelling: sage and thyme from the hair oil that Jaskier used because he had a moment of missing Geralt so terribly that it was either dousing himself in his scent or screeching sadly in a corner; sweat and sex and Geralt’s own smell lingering on Jaskier’s skin; the dust and food smells of the inn; and… is that sugar?

Jaskier lifts his head, sniffing intently. Through the open window drifts the scents of harvest time. Earth, manure, grass, apples, and berries. Under that, the smell of yeasty bread, of pastry dough, and sugar.

“We absolutely must go,” Jaskier declares.

The little bakery on the far side of town is bustling. The customers are too eager to get their share to pay much attention to the stone-faced Witcher and colourful bard appearing in their midst. Jaskier elbows his way to the front, almost salivating as he peruses the wares.

The small village isn’t exactly the centre of confectionary invention, but there are still plenty of things to tempt even the most joyless asshole on the Continent. There are bow-shaped pastries dusted with sugar, fried and battered apple slices, fruit-stuffed _babka_ , sweet rolls filled with fruit preserves or honey, and a number of dense, filling breads.

Jaskier wants one of each and he is not shy about voicing this desire.

When they return to their room with their spoils, Jaskier makes a highly important discovery. In fact, he’s not sure how he’s missed it thus far. Maybe it’s because he rarely gets to see Geralt eat anything that isn’t meat or the occasional vegetable (usually only if it’s put in front of him, like in a stew). (He’s also been trying to eat as Jaskier does, but after the incident with the ‘fucking awful leafy things’, by which he means castor beans, he’s stuck to what he knows).

But now, Jaskier has a front row seat to Geralt’s joy in a simple pastry. He samples a bit of everything, taking small bites and chewing thoughtfully before moving on to the next. The rolls are obviously his favourite; each bite makes him hum deep in his chest, so low Jaskier wouldn’t have heard if not for his Witcher-copied senses.

It’s _obscene_. Geralt just sits there, with his hair still mussed, shirt half-open, beautiful golden eyes lit up with pleasure as he licks filling out of a pastry.

Is Jaskier having a conniption? He’s feeling faint. Melitele save him.

And then, Geralt goes, “Taste this,” and holds out the roll to Jaskier. Like he’s expecting him to eat out of his hand.

… he’s absolutely right that that’s what’s going to happen.

The gentle satisfaction on Geralt’s face as Jaskier ducks his head for a taste makes Jaskier’s heart burst just as the sweet taste of raspberry jam does on Jaskier’s tongue. It is tart as only fresh berries can be, but the sugar underscores it just right, cutting through the sour notes and leaving only the mouth-watering aftertaste.

“It’s good,” Jaskier admits with a groan.

“Taste this,” Geralt demands again, holding up a different roll. This one is honey; when it’s gone, Geralt licks the sticky remnants from his fingers.

Jaskier is going to buy him all the sweet rolls, and that is a threat.

*

(He would like it noted that the subsequent incident with the bear is entirely Geralt’s fault. If Geralt hadn’t shown his preference for sweets, Jaskier never would’ve challenged a bear and gotten his ass kicked.

… okay, so the bear mostly just looks at him piteously as he yells at it from his perch in the tree, half a hundred bee stings littering his body, his hard-won honeycomb prize in one hand. In the end, the bear makes off with the rest of the hive, ignoring Jaskier hollering about ‘poor division of work’. When he hunts it down to steal it back (a mistake, in hindsight, but Jaskier’s never claimed not to be a fool for love), it gets in a good swat before Jaskier remembers that this entire endeavour is an astonishingly stupid move on his part and abandons the hunt with his meagre prize.

It’s worth it when Geralt feeds him pieces of honeycomb directly from his hand as they lie together later).

*

So, all in all, Jaskier would say it’s going pretty well on the whole wooing front. He hasn’t scared Geralt off (despite the love songs), hasn’t driven him to drink (despite the perhaps over-attentive nattering), and he even has reason to believe that Geralt is enjoying it. Just two days ago, he bought Jaskier some new boots! (The effect was slightly ruined by him calling the old boots ‘useless dandy wear’, but it fucking counts).

But then there’s a disruption to his campaign. The source of which is Jaskier’s family, for some ungodly reason.

Because one of them has the audacity to die.

It’s pure luck that they hear about in time for the funeral. They’re passing through a village some fifty miles from Lettenhove when they chance on the news that Jaskier’s cousin Bernard passed in his sleep a few days before.

“Well, I say ‘cousin’,” Jaskier tells Geralt as he’s packing up. If he leaves now, he can make it to Lettenhove before the funeral. “He’s not really my cousin, he’s my nephew to… some degree or other, but him calling me uncle got weird many years ago, I’m sure you see why.”

Geralt does not look like he sees why, but as he follows after Jaskier (and even lets him ride Roach; that’s a declaration of love right there) and ignores all of Jaskier’s warnings that his family will be ‘a bit much, if you’re not used to them’, Jaskier lets it go. He should not have let it go.

“You’ll be meeting all my cousins,” Jaskier says as they walk. “And again—when I say cousin—”

“You don’t actually mean cousin?” Geralt chimes in. Jaskier likes these little interruptions. It means Geralt’s listening. From anyone else, he wouldn’t tolerate it.

“Exactly. It’s too much of a hassle keeping the family tree straight though, so the older ones call me ‘cousin’ and the younger ones call me ‘uncle’. It works for all of us. Now, they can be hard to keep straight, but let’s go through them: there’s Mikhail, and Jakub, and Issie—she’s not actually my cousin, she’s _married_ to Jakub, I just annoy the rest of them by calling her my favourite cousin—”

He talks all the way to Lettenhove and somehow Geralt doesn’t snap at him to be quiet.

Jaskier’s childhood home is a manor of a rather decent size. The grounds are well-kept, the manor itself as stately as always, a mark of the prospering Pankratzes. Around the village, they’re said to be blessed. They’re not wrong. 

They don’t even make it to the stable before they’re noticed.

“Julek!” a voice calls, and Mikhail comes running out the door, all chestnut curls and blue eyes. He collides with Jaskier in a firm hug and only notices that there’s something different about him when he pulls away to greet him properly. “Wow,” he says, looking back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt. “Um.”

“He knows. Now shut up and let me introduce you. Mikhail this is Geralt of Rivia—”

“Uh, yeah, I know.” And because Mikhail is a devil, he adds, “You literally never stop talking about him. And singing. And whining. And singing a little more—”

“Geralt, this is my soon-to-be departed and least favourite cousin, Mikhail, now let’s go meet the rest!”

*

Cousin Bernard was old, and the last time Jaskier saw him, he’d been well-aware of and at peace with his life coming to an end. While he’ll be mourned, the funeral is first and foremost a celebration of his life, and it shows in the atmosphere.

The adults greet them warmly—they’re all a little wary of Geralt at first, but that’s mostly because of the way he’s glowering anxiously at everything, not because they’re actually afraid of him. Having grown up with Jaskier, they’ve got more sympathy for non-humans than most. The kids are absolutely ecstatic to meet him. They all want hugs and kisses and to crawl all over the big Witcher they’ve heard so many stories about. There’s a lot of off-key singing going on, and if it weren’t for one of the older cousins confiscating any and all coins, there would be a lot of coin tossing to poor Geralt.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Mikhail asks when he and Jaskier get a moment alone.

“Shush! He can _hear_ you. I swear if you ruin all my good work, I’ll shave your hair off.”

“Julek, you can’t honestly expect me to believe that a man like that is put off by one little joke about matrimony. You’re clearly already sleeping together, and you brought him here, how could it possibly be a surprise?”

“He’s very delicate, Mikhail.”

They glance over to the corner where Geralt is standing stiffly enough to be mistaken for a battering ram, little kids tumbling around at his feet, one of them pulling on his hand and rambling about horses, another preparing to launch herself from the table and onto his back.

“You’re right, such a dainty, glass-spun fellow.” Mikhail rolls his eyes. “Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I don’t think you’ll fit into your old mourning clothes anymore. Jakub has an extra set of trousers, but they’ll be tight.”

“Tighter than Geralt’s?”

They turn to look again. Jaskier lingers longer on Geralt’s distinct _ass_ ets than entirely polite. “Nah, you’ll be fine.”

The mourning shirt and doublet, however, are a lost cause, so Jaskier bullies Geralt into lending him his extra shirt. It’s not quite clean, but it’ll do, and the loose fit won’t be noticed with the right accessories, and if there’s one thing Jaskier knows, it’s accessories. It’ll be _fine._

“There!” he proclaims the day of the funeral. He’s in Jakub’s old trousers, Geralt’s extra shirt, and has managed to tie a sash around his waist just so, turning it into an ensemble worthy of a bard. A pirate bard, but a dashing one! “How do I look?”

Geralt’s eyes are dilated and he’s staring at the way his shirt reveals a whole lot of Jaskier’s chest hair, despite being laced as tightly as possible.

“No, stop looking at me like that, Geralt. There shall be no fucking before the funeral! _Issie_! How do I look?”

Issie pauses in the doorway only briefly, then wanders off to corral the children. “Like a widower whose spouse died under mysterious and highly suspicious circumstances.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

*

The funeral goes off without a hitch. There’s a bit of crying, a bit of laughing, and as they place Cousin Bernard’s urn in the family mausoleum, Jaskier sings the mourning song, his clear, lovely voice echoing across the graveyard. After, there’s food and reminiscing.

This is where things go wrong.

“Julek,” Jakub says, “I think your Witcher is, uh. Having a small crisis?”

“Crisis? Geralt? What, did you show him your poetry?”

“What, no—fuck you, Issie said I’m getting better.”

“He probably just needs some air then, let me go get him.”

Before Jaskier can do so, however, he’s stopped by several family members, all expressing their worry for Geralt’s state of mind. “He was talking to the kids,” he’s told. “Or, well, being talked at by the kids. You know how curious they are. Then suddenly he went pale.”

In the end, Geralt finds him first. He is indeed very pale, almost as pale as he gets when he’s taken one of his potions, and his eyes are wild with something Jaskier would call fear, except what is there to fear in this house? Also: since when does Geralt fear anything?

He lets Geralt drag him upstairs, lets him bar the door and steel himself to confront whatever it is that has spooked him so. Jaskier perches on the edge of the bed, confused and a little afraid. He’s so nervous that when Geralt actually speaks, he doesn’t quite catch it at first.

When he does, he’s just confused.

“Did you just ask how old I was?” he repeats to be sure. Geralt nods stiffly. “Uh, I don’t really keep count?”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt snaps. Then, “Please.”

“No, really, I don’t. It’s like… what year is it? We’ve known each other for what? Twenty years? Ish? And before that, I celebrate my tenth anniversary from Oxenfurt, so that’s thirty, and then maybe—hold on, maths aren’t my strong suit…”

None of this is the answer that Geralt wants. If anything, the adding of more and more years upsets him; he stumbles back against the door, hands clenched at his sides, jaw working steadily. Visibly calming himself, he rasps, “The children said you were old—”

Jaskier gasps. “Those little _rascals_ —”

“I thought they meant it in the way that children do. That every adult is old, no matter their true age. But then one of your adult cousins said…” He breathes deep. The words are forced. “She agreed.”

“I swear, I’ll disown all of them, rude bastards—”

“How old was Bertram?”

Jaskier counts back. “Seventy-two, I think? Yeah, seventy-two, ‘cause Eliana is fifty-one, I know that for a fact, and Bertram had her when he was twenty-one, so.” He muses, “She’s the oldest of us now. Other than me, of course. Oldest living in this house.”

Geralt closes his eyes, pain flashing across his face. The furrow between his brow seems to have settled into permanence. That’s going to be hell to massage out, but Jaskier is up for the task. Geralt purrs when you rub him just right (mind out of the gutter!) “You’re older than fifty-one.”

“Um, yes. By quite a bit? Like I said, I don’t really keep count.”

Geralt makes a pained noise. Slowly, he detaches himself from the door and comes to a stop in front of Jaskier. To Jaskier’s surprise and shock, he kneels down, curls his fingers around Jaskier’s knees and holds on like Jaskier’s fragile. Is that a tremble along his shoulders?

Something is very, very wrong.

“Do you know how long you have left?” he asks. His voice is so hoarse that the words can barely be discerned.

What, pray tell, the fuck?

“Geralt, dear heart, my Witcher, light of my soul, why do you sound like you expect me to keel over any day now? Spell it out for me please, because I’m not following.”

“You’re _human_ , Jaskier—”

“Uh, what?”

“What?”

“I’m not human. I _told_ you this.”

Geralt blinks. “ _What_.”

*

Jaskier is, perhaps, yelling a bit loudly. But in his defence, he is very confused and upset and this calls for dramatics. “ _What do you mean I didn’t tell you_!”

“Hmm.” Geralt has retreated to the other side of the room. He’s just as wild-eyed as he was at the beginning of the conversation, only now he also looks like he’s trying to wake up from a very weird dream, and it’s all too much. He became non-verbal ten minutes ago.

“I told you this! I literally screamed it from the mountain top!”

“ _Hmm_.”

“Don’t take that tone with me! I _told_ you!”

Turns out… maaaaaayyyyyybe Jaskier didn’t tell him. Not clearly. But it was implied!

He’s pretty sure there was something in his mountain top rant about his ‘inhumanly long life’. Maybe the word ‘Changeling’ didn’t itself make an appearance, but he’s pretty sure he alluded to shapeshifting a number of times. Didn’t he? Shit. Maybe he didn’t. In his defence, he was very distraught that day.

“So,” Jaskier says when he’s calmed down a bit and admitted that maybe he hadn’t made it clear that he isn’t human. “Let’s do this again. Hi, I’m Jaskier—or Julian Alfred Pankratz, or Julek, if you’re family. Which you are, by the way. I’m a Changeling. I’m not going to grow old tomorrow.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you angry with me? Don’t be angry, I’m really sorry. Look, I’ll make it up to you. Is it the non-human thing? I swear I’m not dangerous! Well, not any more dangerous than you are, which, fair, is maybe a tiny, itty-bitty bit dangerous, but not recklessly so—those bastards I knifed at the tavern don’t count, they had it coming, and that bear the other week, but he stole my honeycomb and I’d got it for you and—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt pleads. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hey, hey, Geralt, look at me, please? I’m sorry.” He hurries to Geralt and tentatively cradles his face in his hands, a relieved sob breaking free when Geralt doesn’t rip away from his touch. “What do you need?”

Geralt’s pupils are blown, a sure sign that he’s overwhelmed. “Silence,” he finally grinds out. “I need… I need to meditate.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier leaves him to it. There’s a bit of noise from downstairs, but the room is otherwise well-insulated, and no one will bother him up here as long as the door is closed. Before he leaves, Jaskier pauses in the doorway and looks back at his Witcher. (Is he still Jaskier’s Witcher?) “When you’re done… I’ll be in the garden. Come find me, alright? Please don’t… please don’t leave me.”

There’s no answer. Jaskier leaves.

At the foot of the stairs, he hears it, low and broken and heartbreakingly soft: “I won’t.”

*

In the garden, on the edge of the forest that borders their property, Jaskier finds himself doing his own kind of meditation. He’s sheltered from prying eyes here, and all sound seems muted, almost as if it is a holy space.

In some ways, it is. It’s where his mother used to pray for a child. Where his father told her that he’d love her even if they never conceived and begged that she might love him, too, if it was his fault that they could not. It’s where the Fae answered their prayers; where they first held Jaskier in their arms.

The wind sings to him. It’s different here from any other place in the world, as if the very air had changed when Jaskier came into the world. It speaks with voices only he can hear, gibberish he can somehow make sense of, otherworldly and eerie. He answers in the same tongue, that strange singing that his family has described as ‘the sound ringing in your ears when you’re walking home at night and _know_ that someone is watching you, but when you call, no one answers’.

He’s interrupted by a rough, stunned, “Oh.”

When he turns, Geralt is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. In a sense, he hasn’t; at least not like _this_. In the garden, Jaskier loosens his grip on himself, lets his form settle into something closer to his ‘true’ skin—if there was such a thing as a single ‘true’ skin for a Changeling. Like this, his skin almost resembles a map of another world, blue-tinted with greenish veins like rivers just below the surface. His eyes are completely black; not unlike a Witcher’s in the grip of a potion.

He’s still Julian Alfred Pankratz though. Still his parents’ son, with his mother’s big eyes and his father’s wavy hair, and his mother’s smile, and his father’s nose, and—

He’s _Jaskier_.

He pats the ground beside him and thankfully, Geralt sits.

“Haven’t heard you sing like that before,” he says. When Geralt is uneasy, he grows unnaturally still. Like he is now.

“Mm, yes, I don’t do it anywhere but here. Not exactly pleasant for anyone else.”

Geralt protests, “Not unpleasant either. Just not human.”

It warms Jaskier all the way through. “Just not human.”

“You’re a Changeling.”

“I am.”

Geralt nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Hmm.” That means ‘yes, that’s what I said.’

Is this what resurrection feels like? This euphoria? Relief? And slightly stale taste of panic in the back of his throat? “I really am sorry. I thought I’d told you.”

More nodding. “It’s fine.”

They sit silently for a while and watch the forest. After a few minutes, Jaskier points to a blackberry bush and says, “Under that bramble, I was born into this world. My mother had to untangle it to get me out. Cut herself something fierce, too. My father nearly panicked when he saw all the blood. But then he held me. I didn’t change my form until I slept between them, with their heartbeats lulling me to sleep. That was… four generations ago? So maybe a hundred years?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he’s listening intently. He knocks their knees together and subtly breathes through his nose, pulling Jaskier’s scent into his lungs.

“Also,” Jaskier continues. Time to be bold. “In the interest of full disclosure… I admire you. Most ardently.” A beat. “That means I’m in love—”

“I know what it means, Jaskier.”

“Well, excuse me for making sure, Mr Grouchy Leather Pants, but we just came from a confrontation that could’ve been avoided if I’d spelled that other thing out a bit sooner.”

Geralt chuffs. It’s the most wonderful sound in the world, superseded only by his full-bodied, rarely heard laugh. And also Jaskier hitting a high note just right, because that right there is breathtaking, and everybody should be in awe of him.

Then, “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

Jaskier turns his head very, very slowly, absolutely livid. “ _Excuse me_?”

“Witchers don’t—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence—”

“ _I’m not supposed to want for anything_. Or anyone. Last time I did, I… fuck. I don’t have anything to offer you, Jaskier—”

“Bold fucking words for someone within tackle-hug distance, and also, you take that back right now or I will—”

“ _But_ ,” Geralt keeps going, and he’s raising his voice now, matching Jaskier. “ _I still hoped_.” He’s fidgeting; clenching and unclenching his fists, cocking his head so that he’s turned towards Jaskier but still not looking him directly in the eye. “With the gifts and the… touching and the way you smelled, I was… mostly sure. That you felt like that.”

“Thank you for noticing, I put a lot of effort into that, now take back those things you said about yourself, or I’ll make you.” Jaskier’s all puffed up now, eyes shifting to crystalline blue just to communicate how blazingly furious he is with Geralt putting himself down. No one gets to do that! Not unless they want to get stabbed! “You have _everything_ to offer me. Even if you had nothing, you’d still have yourself, and that’s enough, that’s beyond enough, don’t you understand?”

They’re looking at each other now, Geralt’s yellow eyes full of astonishment and something soft and fragile, Jaskier’s fiery with indignation and love and all the things he’s trying to say but suddenly finds that he cannot. The master bard, wordless at last.

But where words fail, actions speak.

Jaskier moves, or maybe Geralt does—it doesn’t matter. They come together, teeth clacking a little painfully at first, half because they can’t hold back, half because Jaskier is smiling like a wild thing, but then it gives way to softness and slick heat.

Geralt pulls back. He’s stuttering over syllables, not forming any words. Jaskier cradles his head in his hands and lets him stumble through it, gently coaxing him along with kisses all over his face. When nothing comes out, Geralt groans in frustration.

Eyes suddenly wide, he grabs Jaskier by the shoulders and dives face first into the hollow between neck and shoulder. No, not face first. _Cheeks_ first. Like Jaskier had done that day by the river, Geralt rubs his face over bared skin, Jaskier’s collarbones, his neck, his face. Leaving scent. Leaving a claim.

“Oh,” Jaskier stutters. “Oh, dear heart, I love you, too.”

*

*

*

*

“I’m going to write a ballad about this.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Why must you always shoot down my ideas_?”

“ _Hmm_.”

“Fine. Fine! You win this once, Witcher.”

*

“No, but really, how else am I going to explain to Ciri how she ended up with two fathers?”

“Jaskier.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“It’s okay, Yenn told me,” Ciri butts in.

“Ciri, don’t—oh great. You broke the bard. Geralt, get your husband away from me before I hex him into the next sphere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much??? your kindness is awe-inspiring
> 
> i am on tumblr if you wanna come yell at me about the bard and his witcher  
> [Tumblr](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/)


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